Jedao feels like a chorus, or a cacophony, thinks yes and no, and oh fuck, I'm an idiot, and but we just and please all in the same moment. Fives' last desperate merciless stroke feels fucking incredible, rattles him from his hips to his jaw bone, and he has to bite down hastily on his own hand to keep quiet himself, tension wound too tight all through him to do anything but clutch his fist in the sheets and keep squeezing around Fives' cock.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he mutters, slurred and only halfway to coherency even once it feels safe to let himself speak again, because it's the only word that feels versatile enough for his elation and frustration and rueful awareness that he really should have known this would happen.